Shattered Fragments
by Dome of Bones
Summary: A collection of one-shots of various lives around the Imperium of Man and beyond. Expect irregular updates and possibly a lot of varying genres. M rating just to be safe for the future.
1. Of Primarchs and Bad Decisions

Check the bottom of the chapter for notes.

* * *

Beautiful marble spires, laden with with ornate sculpturing, stretched out as far the eye could see, encompassing the entire room. A stadium-sized, beautifully decorated bathhouse fit for the gods.

Too bad the Space Wolves had to be occupying it.

Roboute Guilliman, Master of Ultramar, conqueror of a thousand worlds and more, was unsure on which would be ruined first: his sense of smell from the rather...unpleasant aromas given off by the chambers' occupants, or his expensive suit from the amount of moisture in the air.

He did admit the later might've felt downright pleasant on him at some point, but he was not there for relaxation purposes. In fact, not 20 meters further, was the reason he had even come to this planet.

Leman Russ, Wolf King of Fenris, was laying in the largest and most exquisite tub, a rare sight as he usually did not prefer extravagance. Draped to his sides were four women, all of them gorgeous amazons in their own right, barely reaching above his midriff. On the edge, there were several dozens of what Guilliman could only assume were the planet's strongest beverages. He had to suppress a sigh as he approached. The Wolves had received their unfortunate habit from somewhere, after all.

As Russ finally noticed him, diverting his gaze from his "escorts", he had a look of momentary surprise on his face, before bursting into uproarious laughter, sloshing the water around himself.

"Guilliman," his laughter ceased, but he still bore a good-natured smile on his face. "What brings you to this humble respite?"

"I was in the area on a diplomatic mission to the planet of Rapture," Guilliman's own visage remained stone-cold. "They were more than open to joining the Imperium right away. Of course, immediately after I finish said mission, I discover that my brother, Leman Russ, has taken over a system and is using it as his personal civilized drunk tank."

"Oh come now, Roboute, don't be such a spoilsport. It's merely a celebration."

"I do not see why a celebration must last over 7 days, and span multiple planets."

"We overthrew a despised despot while losing only 3 of our own," Russ now reached for one of the bottles, cracking it open and downing it in practically one gulp. "The native population appreciated the gesture, so if anything they're continuing the celebration for us. Is that not correct, beauties?"

The women at his sides had small giggles to themselves, while Guilliman had to suppress a facepalm this time.

"Very well, Russ, I have neither the time nor the energy to argue further about this," Guilliman turned around, intending to leave his brother to his own devices, as bad of an idea as that was. "Attempt to not royally ruin something in the meantime, yes?"

As he began walking away however, he felt something whisking toward him through the air. Catching it effortlessly, Guilliman turned around to find a bottle in his hand. He looked at the liquor, then at Russ.

"You know brother, you are already here. I see not the problem in indulging yerself with us for one night."

"Absolutely not."

"Your miniature Imperium will not collapse if it's head takes a single day off."

"Contrary to popular belief, I do allow myself resting, Russ. But this? This is simply absurd. It's not mere indulgence, it's debauchery."

"You insult me with these words Guilliman. You speak as if we are a daemonic pleasure cult. We are not. The Vlka Fenryka are lovers of life and all of it's aspect, including it's excesses."

"Especially it's excesses."

Russ simply rolled his eyes before continuing. "Besides, how long has it been since you've had a good drink with your peers? How much time has gone by without you engaging a single dame?"

Guilliman moved to retort, only to find his artillery exhausted. Russ' questions did hold weight, despite their ridiculousness.

"Exactly," Russ now bore a very sinister smile. "You cannot even remember, can you? Is that not proof enough that an intervention is needed?"

"I grow tired of this farce, Russ," Guilliman's displeasure was now showing on his face. "The Imperium and Ultramar need me as I am. They tolerate you because you are good at your job."

"I see no practical difference," Russ sighed as he stared back at his brother. "Very well, Roboute. As much as you might not like to admit it, I sense hesitation in your voice. I suppose I will need to show you something to finally break through the ironclad fortress that is your ego."

Guilliman was about to fire back, only for Russ to emerge from his tub, stark naked. The ladies once at his side appreciated the site of the amply gifted Primarch. Guilliman...did not.

"I did not require that visual, Russ," he was still internally cringing as Leman thankfully put on a robe.

The Wolf King motioned for Guilliman to follow him, and although he was tired of his brother's vain attempts, he reluctantly heeded him, if only to sate his desire of messing with him so he could move on. Russ took them to a region of the bathhouse unknown to him, away from the sounds of the party. He inquired him several times, only to receive silence as they reached a door. Opening it, it revealed a balcony, and Guilliman was greeted by the sight of the bustling city's skyline. It was a breathtaking view, but one Russ was entirely disinterested in.

"Look at the stars, brother," Guilliman did so, being met with the ocean of bright dots above, still largely untouched despite the sheer light pollution of the metropolis in front of him. "Where once before, long ago, men could only dream of conquering the galaxy and sailing effortlessly through the ether, it is now mundane reality for us. Hundreds of thousands of worlds, growing each day even. So, why not take a single moment of break? The galaxy will still be there to be brought under our light, it has been for billions of years now. None shall think less of you, brother."

Guilliman at least released a small wheeze, the ridiculousness of the whole situation finally dawning on him. "You sound like our father, only arguing covertly for booze and women."

Russ, too, joined his brother, the boisterous brother snickering loudly. Guilliman however, had stopped his own bout, instead now glaring back at the bottle in his hands, realizing he'd never put it down. His conflicted mind at last giving up, he closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh for the love of...fine. I will...partake in your festivities, Russ."

"That's the spirit," The Wolf King's enthusiasm had skyrocketed with Guilliman's folding, giving the latter a smack on the back which felt more like a hammer blow. "Well, what are you waiting for? Bottoms-up."

Guilliman looked at the bottle. Slowly, tentatively, he reached for it's tap, popping it open. He put the neck of the bottle to his nose, a pleasant aroma of fine concoctions greeting it. With Russ practically ready to shove it down his throat, he at last took a long gulp. The another. And another. And so and so, until the bottle was drained. He was not a super heavyweight like Russ, but he was still a Primarch, and the liquor, despite being of the highest quality, was not enough to give him a buzz.

"Not quite Fenrisian Ale, eh?" Russ was clearly extremely amused at this point, wrapping his arm around Guilliman's shoulder, taking them both back inside. "Don't worry, after a couple dozen of these, it'll make little difference. Now let's you acquainted with some ample...servants."

Guilliman sighed once more as they entered back into the fray of the party, already regretting every decision he had ever made.

* * *

Author's notes: Now I know what you're thinking: "BUT WHAT ABOUT TIMELESS GUARDIAN D:"

And my answer is: this is not going to be a regular series. It might slow the actual series down by a bit depending on how long I spend on any particular one-shot, but it overall won't impact it much.

Anyway, a Smurf and a Furry walk into a spa. Heh. Keep in mind, I have not read a single book of the Horus Heresy, so Russ' and Gilligan's personalities are almost entirely based on how I envision them myself. Bonus points if they're accurate, I guess. Sort of a crack fic of a first chapter, but I'm not entirely unconvinced Russ hasn't tried to pull shit like this with the brothers he did like.

Once more, I am off to slave again at the behest of the reviewers and watchers (which are always greatly appreciated), so yes, our favorite Golden Banana is next. Otherwise, this Bone of Domes signing off (wait...).


	2. Tooth and Nail

Check the bottom of the chapter for notes.

* * *

A galaxy scorched.

Burned from the inside out by the fires of ambition. It's ashes threatened to blot out the very light of the stars that lay above their heads. Brother turned on brother, as all men and women alive, from the greatest planetary lord to the lowliest slave, had to make their choice. Between damnation, or survival. Brother Fjord Thorsson was determined to not allow the earlier play out, along with his mighty Legion.

Great Company Onn of the mighty Vlka Fenryka was already spread thin battling in the Emperor's name, specifically against the Alpha Legion, as the Wolf King embarked on his own personal crusade towards Terra. A force of 50 Terminators, along with over 400 auxiliary Marines from other Great Companies had been deployed to take the relatively lightly defended world of Praxus.

But, as with everything tainted by the Alpha Legion, the task at hand could never have been so simple. The traitors played a long game of attrition, popping out of nowhere, dealing devastating blows and then vanishing back into the cracks of the earth itself it seemed. Any location they were spotted was bombarded from orbit where it was possible, and evacuated, yet burned to the ground where it could not. But even that had proven ineffective.

The Alpha Legion were not only masters of deception, but also superb survivalists. Perfectly adaptable. entirely self-reliant and more than capable of acting all on their lonesome. It was one of the many benefits of having a decentralized command structure. So, obviously, the Rout had to try a different approach for combating the highly unconventional enemy.

So they too began employing sudden attacks. False Deep Strikes that would draw the Legion's attention, only for the actual Marines to initiate the second Strike the second the Alpha Legion pocked it's heads. False leads, diversions and the like, along with the unexpectedness of the Sons of Russ embracing such unconventional methods, evened the playing fields somewhat. Not to mention the fact that the Alpha Legionaries were entirely cut off from any support, while the Rout had numerous logistical and supplementary assets constantly aiding it, both within and out of the Legion.

But it was still a long and brutal campaign. As good as they could do, the Alpha Legion could always do better, even with it's limited resources and manpower. Total control of an information war simply came as natural to them as the inherent aptitude in mounted, swift combat came to the White Scars or siege warfare specialty came to the Iron Warriors.

Already the fruits of their deceptive labor were apparent, as the Rout's forces had been dwindled to only 200, with 20 of his own Terminator brethren having fallen already to their devious ploys. Meanwhile, the Alpha Legion itself had sustained barely 100 confirmed casualties. Of course, it being the Hydra's personal army, one could never be truly sure. After all, very few bodies were ever recovered.

But there were acts of fate even they could not prepare for, nor predict in advance. Such as running into a Terminator armed to the teeth.

Brother Fjord and the remaining members of Great Company Onn now frequently moved on their lonesome. A single Terminator, despite their immense bulk, was an extremely unpredictable and devastating unit that could insert itself quickly and vanishing completely afterward thanks to their teleporters, while also possessing the firepower and armor to rip apart an ill-equipped squad. That, along with their ability to call for instantaneous support by their Brothers, had resulted in a significant upturn for the Legion against their foes.

But as Brother Fjord backhanded an Alpha Legionary, shattering his spine, he knew he would need no backup. Destiny was simply smiling on him that day. It was a funny thing really. By Fjord's own beliefs, the Warmaster's rebellion was always something intended to happen. But so too, was it's fated destruction an inevitability. Fjord was not a psyker, nor a religious man. But he knew their destiny would prevail.

But that contemplation was for later. Now, as the last Alpha Legionary feebly made his last stand, it was time to hunt, for the traitors were but rabid dogs and he a hungry wolf. And hunt he did, ignoring the useless clangs of Bolter fire against his armor, swinging his dual Lightning Claws. The first took off the traitor's arm, along with his weapon. An annoyance more than a threat to a Terminator, but nonetheless better to be safe than sorry. Destiny tended to punish those who goaded it.

The second impaled his abdomen. A mortal blow for most, but not for an Astartes. Fortunate as well, as Fjord had a few choice words for this dog before he was sent to greet his perverted menagerie of gods.

"Tell me something traitor: the abominations you serve, they are fickle creatures are they not?" his gruff voice permeated throughout his armor, amplified by his Terminator's vocal enhancers. The Alpha Legionary however, remained dead silent, even as his life was slowly fading. "I will just take your silence as confirmation then. When you get there, to the Warp, as they prepare to cast your soul into whatever eternal damnation awaits for failing them, tell all daemonic wretches there who slaughtered you in the name of the Wolf King of Fenris, and the Emperor of Mankind: **Brother Fjord Thornsson of Vlka Fenryka!**"

He did not await the Marine's response, if he even had one, as he sliced his neck off with free Claw. His head went flying several meters, helmet barely keeping on. It was done. Fjord would've called it a day at this point. 4 more traitors redeemed by his hand for standing against mankind's future. But, unfortunately, his job was not done.

Destiny had further plans for him that day it seemed, as he had received a transmission from a fellow member of his Company, Brother Omm, who had discovered an Alpha Legion trail that appeared legitimate. He also corroborated that they were planning _something_. That had been over 2 hours ago. Now, already being out in the field, Fjord would answer his Brother's call, whether to help him in glorious combat...or punish the traitors and recover the body.

He would need no backup. Destiny was on his side that day. It would continue to be. It had to be.

* * *

The dense undergrowth of this planet's equator provided excellent cover, even with the unwieldy proportions of Cataphractii armor. It was no wonder the Alpha Legion preferred such an environment. Here they could wage their deceptive, confusing warfare unabated. But as Fjord moved through the dense jungle of shrubbery and vines, with his own unnaturally-enhanced senses and the environmental awareness capabilities of his armor, he knew any would-be hunter would find himself the hunted.

He soon stumbled upon a large mudpit. Not seeing any other faster ways of making it through to his location, he submerged himself in the sludge, which reached about waist high for him but could've been enough to drown a normal human completely. The grimy nature of it didn't bother him much. Growing up as a boy and then a man on Fenris tended to make all other seemingly unpleasant experiences tolerable at worst. Though, he did not appreciate how his wolf pelt had been stained.

Nonetheless, it was not important now. He was nearly upon the place Omm's last transmission had come from. His sensors began picking up residual energy of a peculiar type. The very atmosphere shifted the slightest bit, becoming ever more...tense. His finely tuned nose picked up a new smell coming from somewhere, distinct from the aromas of sweet, blooming flowers and moistened dirt native to the habitat he was traveling in. Then, as he finally ascended out of the mud pit, stumbling upon a clearance in the dense bush, he saw the source of the strange scent.

A bunker-like structure lay before him. Although it was clearly hastily made, that did not detract from it's sheer size. The compound was so large he was almost certain one of their smaller Great Companies could use it as a base of operations. It was located just next to another batch of jungle, the vines and plants seemingly left to grow on purpose to better conceal the compound.

Although he could observe no guards or symbols, he was entirely certain on who the builders were. The Alpha Legion was nothing if not methodical to a point, and an easily constructable, camouflaged base of operations seemed perfect for them. However, now came the job of determining whether or not it was a decoy, like so many before it. For that, he would have to get close, undetected.

He could simply teleport, but he never trusted the damned thing in the first place. It always found a way to screw with him. Seemed as if destiny simply did not favor such a method. All the better for Fjord, as he found it particularly distasteful and dangerous. That device could mess with a Marine's body and soul worse than any Chaos taint if it so felt like it.

So it seemed he would to approach it carefully, methodically, maximizing his cover. To this end, he cut off several branches of shrubs and small trees, hanging them off himself. Their weight could've bogged down any standard troops, but with the power of an Astartes and Terminator armor, they were nothing. He moved through where the foliage was thickest, slowly making his way as a green phantom.

As he navigated through the jungle, inching ever closer to the compound, a small voice in his head attempted to sway his attention. It told him he was a son of Russ, not one of the Raven Guard, or worse, of the traitors he was facing. He needed to drop the stealthy idiocy and charge the compound with all of his might, tearing down the walls and killing any Alpha Legionaries there.

But he knew that was simply his aggressive side speaking to him. The wisest and most successful wolf always inspected it's prey and then struck at the best possible moment. And as he moved closer and closer, now practically a dozen or so meters away from the walls, he began to hear chatter. People. Actual humans. He could tell they were not Astartes either. Their voices were meek whispers, barely audible even to him. One, two, three, a dozen, a hundred?! How many were there?

That was when the ominous chanting began. The voices that had been heard before became more panicked. That was when Fjord had finally had enough. Breaking out of the dense jungle he was once almost a part of, he used his Lightning Claws to scale the great wall with speed that should've been impossible for something of his size and weight.

He reached the top of the wall, crawling slow on top of it as he did, intending to avoid detection until the last possible moment. Moving to the other edge, he stared into the contents of the compound, feeling the closest he had ever gotten to dumbstruck in all his 200 years of service.

Before him lay a massive group of people. He could not guess the exact number, but if he had to estimate, it would have to be roughly 10,000 of them there. Most were not even looking at him, instead having an expression of fear on their faces. Some were muttering what he could only assume to be prayers. Yet others carried a solemn sadness to them. But then, he noticed the black robes and the towering, armored figures.

Alpha Legion. And...cultists? Cultists holding ritualistic knives, almost certainly designed for sacrifice.

It made sense now. They were attempting some kind of summoning to overrun the planet. He knew the traitors had begun growing desperate as of late, but this was insanity even for them. And judging from the sheer number of tributes, such a task would be easy. But how could they have acquired such a large number of people so quickly? The world they were on did have a civilized population of 143 million, but most of them had taken refuge in hastily-built bunkers when the fighting had broken out.

The first scream brought him back from his thoughts. The ritual had already begun, as hundreds of the robbed figures descended upon the helpless people. Then, Fjord decided it was time to act. As he made to move from his position and descend upon the cultists and seemingly oblivious Marines, he never saw the Lascannon fire.

The heat of a burning star slammed into his back, throwing even his ludicrous bulk several feet back. The shot had fully bust through his armor, and his powerpack had been saved, but he could feel the heat radiating from it's melted form. Immediately, his combat programming took over. He could not take another hit like that, so he scanned the area for his surprise sniper.

He found him not 40 meters away, reloading his weapon. One of the Astartes had seemed to notice him. Well, he would've preferred if he hadn't been shot first, but he had intended to begin his assault either way. He got to his feet, and charged at the traitor.

"For the Allfather!" he shouted, as even with reduced speed, the Alpha Legionary still couldn't back up in time, Fjord's Claws grasping the Lascannon just as he had finished reloading it, tearing it to ribbons. The traitor let go of his ruined weapon, unholstering his Bolt Pistol and emptying the whole magazine into the Space Wolf's face.

As expected, the Bolt shells deflected off the hardened plasteel and ceramite. Fjord was unphased, but not amused, as he cut the Marine's head into neat chunks, blood, bone and brain matter flying. Unfortunately, the whole of the base had now been alarmed to his presence, as the cultists had begun to swing more fervently, while their traitor masters were gathering towards him.

He'd have to guess there were at least 8, but he did not care to check twice as he tore through the first one, who was attempting to swing a Chainaxe into his face. His armor decreased his walking speed, yes, but it did nothing to hamper his immense reactions, dodging the deadly weapon and hitting him with the back of his hand, sending him flying into a wall.

A good chunk of the Marine's armor simply melted away from the disruptive power of his Claws. But the force of the impact did the killing blow, with Fjord practically feeling how it shattered more armor, broke through reinforced bone and pulverized organs. The Marine was left to drown in his own blood and guts for a few moments before finally going limp, as Fjord moved to engage his brethren.

A lone Terminator was all this particular branch of the Legion seemed to posses, but he was armed with a Power Fist and an Autocannon, not to mention having his armor in optimal condition, unlike Fjord. He was certainly the greatest threat there, and Fjord would have to take him out quick. He wished he brought a ranged weapon by now as the traitor revved up said Autocannon.

He began peppering Fjord with hundreds of rounds. They all had limited effect of course, but they would add up if he continued to simply brunt the attack. He closed the distance between them, but the Terminator immediately swung his Power Fist the second he got in range of it. However, Fjord was just that bit faster, blocking it with one of his Lightning Claws. The power fields cancelled each-other out, but his Claws had still been damaged by the blow.

Just as Fjord prepared to pay him back for the ruined weapon, the other Terminator headbutted him, bypassing even the safety padding of his helmet, as Fjord spit a tooth inside his helmet. That pissed him off. If his helmet hadn't been on, the Terminator would've gotten one Hell of a death glare before having his Autocannon arm sliced off. The traitor looked at his severed limb for a brief moment, no doubt clenching his teeth through the pain, before turning back to the Space Wolf, who shoved his functioning Lightning Claws through his abdomen.

The traitor, assailed by the immense pain of losing a limb and now being fatally stabbed was stunned, but he did not yield. And a few seconds later he engaged his Power Fist once more. He was in a position where he could not move to intercept, instead barely managing to slow down the Fist with his ruined Claws before it impacted with his head. But the power field was still there.

His protective "cowl" having been mostly destroyed by the Lascannon, Fjord felt the impact upon his helmet fully. Pain unlike most he had experienced shot through him, and he could swear his head had been on the verge of being popped like a melon. Blood gushed from his mouth, his nose, even his eyes. He nearly fell to his knees, but then he stopped himself. Collapsing now meant death.

He had already instinctively grabbed the Marine's Power Fist with his own Claws, and with a missing arm along with his skewered abdomen, he was effectively stuck. He prepared to put him out of his misery. That was when the shooting started.

Three Marines, each wielding a Heavy Bolter had begun firing upon him. Using the nearly dead Terminator as cover, Fjord knew even his armor would last long against the heavy weaponry, as demonstrated by the traitor being riddled with holes, finally drawing his last breath. Thinking quickly, he threw the massive lump of the body towards the Marines. Even bogged down by their weapons, they all managed to dodge out of the way of their dead brother, turning themselves immediately, ready to riddle their foe with holes once more, but Fjord was simply too quick.

The first strike crushed a Marine's head to a pulp. The next tore through armor, ripping apart both hearts of the other traitor. The third came upon the final of the trio, cleaving through one of his arms. As he moved for last strike however, the traitor used his remaining hand to throw his Bolter toward him, his Claws slicing it to ribbons instead of him.

He reached to his belt with his remaining arm, drawing out a Plasma Gun. His Claws came down but a moment later, but it was still too slow, as the shot had already been fired. He experienced a sensation which could only be described as having his face shoved in molten metal. His helmet, already broken by the Power Fist blow from earlier, not only offered minuscule protection, but actively harmed him more as he felt the burning adamantium dripping. Perhaps molten metal dipping was not so wrong.

He jerked his functioning Claws to his head, practically ripping his own helmet off. His enemy had been viciously eviscerated, blood and other bodily fluids spread all over, but all Fjord could focus on was the pain. The searing heat had not gone away, if anything his charred flesh reacted eve worse by being exposed to open air. He could not feel a good chunk of the right side of his head, and his right eye had gone dark. Suffice to say he would have to get implants if he even survived.

_No._ These pathetic traitors would not fell him. The Vlka Fenryka were built to shrug off such mortal injury and rejoin the battle with just as much fervor. And as the sound of the world came back to him, he could hear the traitor's footsteps toward him. He could smell their tainted flesh, even over his own burning blood, and he steadied himself, ready to slaughter them to the man.

"With vicious steel and iron heart, none shall escape my wrath!" he turned toward his newest assailers. It was quite strange how they were coming in waves instead of slaughtering him all at once, but the compound was big enough to warrant them being spread out managing it. He turned to the four Astartes, each brandishing a Power weapon of their own. And each descended on him at once.

He managed to skewer one of them while punching another several dozens of meters away with his ruined weapon. The first's torso fell from the rest of him, while the latter was broken in half. But, alas, that did not stop the other two from shoving their Power Swords into his abdomen. Blood came out of his mouth once more, as he could feel the blades sink deep within him, even Terminator plate being incapable of stopping their incredible piercing power. One had traveled through his body, but thankfully had left most of his primary organs intact. The other...well, he could not feel the beat of his second heart anymore.

Fjord fell to his knees again. His rage was boiling, but his body was at it's limit. But just as the throes of unconsciousness were assaulting his mind, he had an idea. He dropped his head, lone eye closing. And he wanted to go to rest so badly at that moment...but his duty was not done. His sleight of hand seemed to be working, as the grips of the two Marines on their weapons loosened just that tiny bit as he ceased his breathing.

That was his moment to strike, as his Claws swiped at one of his foes. He fell to the ground, this time he could hear the screams, as the traitor's leg had been sliced clean off. The irony of deceiving the Alpha Legion was not lost on him, even as the other Marine jerked his own Power weapon inside of his body, but Fjord had already prepared for such, backfisting the traitor in the face.

He turned to see his helmet bent, and his face likely in no better condition inside. The Marine took on a combat stance, as he dodged one of his swipes, pulling a quick one-two combo on his exposed face that nearly sent him reeling to the floor. If his nose hadn't been broken before, it certainly was now. Normally such strikes would've been cause for a hearty laugh and a chug of Fenrisian ale. Normally such speed should've been pathetic to him, a Veteran of the Great Crusade with full Terminator honors. But he was anything but at normal at this moment.

His legs were nearly giving out, his face still felt as if it was being boiled, his body felt as if it was collapsing in of itself. Even for a Space Wolf, a Legion most resilient among the already superhuman Astartes, he was operating at his limit. Another punch came, this time to his jaw. If it hadn't been clenched tight, he was almost certain it would have broken. He thought his rage ended for a time, blotted by the exhaustion and pain. It came back however.

Rearing his hand, Fjord took another swipe with renewed wrath running through the little blood he had in his system. He hoped whichever heart had been stopped was clotted over by now. This time, the traitor Astartes was not left unscathed, receiving a very wide cut through his armor, but a shallow one nonetheless. This was it. He could not afford to take any more damage. Any other hits to his already horribly malformed and broken face and all the adrenaline in the world would not suffice to keep him standing. The Marine punched at him, he swung his Claws once more...

He fell to ground, his mouth bleeding again. For all the good instantly-clotting blood could do him, it did not matter when the injuries persisted. But, he saw the Marine fall as well, blood quickly spewing all over the ground. He...had won. He could...truly rest now. And all would be well.

But then, he remembered the people. The cultists. The knives, the screaming and the blood. He used all his might to try and get up, but his body would not budge. He was truly despising the weight of his armor at this moment. Normal Power Armor wouldn't have been so hard to move in in this state. But, as he became attentive of the secondary reason he had stormed the base, he noticed that the crowd were not screaming. There was chatter, sure, but it was not the panicked cries he would've expected.

Soon enough, something moved at the edge of his vision. Then something else. Then another. All over his field of view. As he calmed down more and more, he found less and less strength to attempt to look around. Until they were all gathered around him, that was. 6 or 7 men hauled his massive bulk to his feet once more. He saw their faces now, even through the haze of exhaustion. They were all scarred, older men, most bearing tattoos.

Veterans of some sort of conflict. The only way he could explain how relaxed they were in his presence. Normal people would most likely not even attempt to get close to him. And speaking of them...

The massive crowd now stood before him, the group having escorted him from the top of the wall. He saw the bodies of dead cultists at their feet, and unfortunately, more than a few of the civilians as well. It seemed they had rebelled the second the vile worshiper's backup had become busy dealing with him.

He saw faces of fear, awe, and even horror as they all stared at their broken savior. He truly did not fault them. He did not even dare think of what his face had been reduced to, there were weapons literally sticking out of him and his armor was covered in blood, both his own and of his enemies. But, he would not appear an Angel defiled in front of these people, especially after they had fought their own battle and sacrificed accordingly.

He broke off from his escorts, who desperately tried to stop him from moving on his own, but he simply raised his hand to halt them, as he tentatively took a step. Then another. Each one hurt like Hell, but he kept up, raising his head to meet the gazes of the people there.

"Destiny smiles upon you this day," Fjord's voice was ragged, weak, but it still commanded respect from all those present. "Many have lost siblings, parents, lovers and friends this day. It was fate's hand which weaved their deaths, and before it even gods bow. All we can do is honor their sacrifice."

He spared a glance to the bodies once more. He also noticed how some had already began mourning, while others picked them, likely intending to give them proper burial rites when they reached civilization again.

"But, while a tragic occasion, we should rejoice nonetheless for the blow dealt to the forces of the treacherous and the occult today. For while it may be but a small victory in the grand scheme of the Warmaster's rebellion, it is yet another step, however bloody, towards the Imperium's burning, bright future. A future free of the corruptions which besiege it now. A future where our Emperor lead mankind to greater heights than ever seen before!"

The crowd cheered at this, a thunderous noise that awakened him somewhat from his state. He had never truly been good at giving a speech, but he nonetheless tried his best. He seemed to have succeeded. And from what he could see, they had already begun evacuating themselves at his call. What he could not see however, was the last of the squad of Legionaries there, obstructed in the shadows of a building, pressing one simple switch.

In a moment, a hurricane of noise had encompassed their world. Fjord looked around, explosions going off everywhere, some having fallen to them already, while others barely avoiding them as the move to the compound's main exist became a mad rush. One particularly strong explosion was set off. The main control tower the base had began falling. Began falling upon a group of the running civilians.

Fjord did not think twice. He broke into a mad rush toward the collapsing building, all the tiredness, injury and literal weight upon his soldiers removed for a brief instant. He positioned himself just in time, the building falling to his back. He expected the impact. It did make it more bearable, but only by the slightest margins. He was forcibly pushed to his knees. He was almost certainly said push had also shattered most bones in his legs. And yet, the Terminator armor, even almost drained, provided him enough force to hold the massive structure at it's base.

But he was still pushing himself to the edge. His spine was taut, tensed to it's limit. Every cell in his body screamed in a single, infernal noise for him to stop. But he could not. Even if the people had fled the area, he was stuck there. He could not move. All that remained for him was to suffer a slow, agonizing death, being gradually crushed alive. He refused to believe fate would have such disgraceful method of killing him at last, but so it seemed was it's will until he noticed the last person who had remained there.

The traitor Marine had a Bolter pointed to his head, but otherwise, he was unmoving. He could not grasp what thoughts could possibly sail around his head at the moment, but since his enemy did not appear to be taking the shot for the moment, he considered making a last stand. Not with his weapons, nor his strength, for they had all been drained to nothing by now, but with his words. They were the last artillery he had left.

"So, here you are, traitor. You have won. Except, well, for the simple fact that you haven't," the Alpha Legionary simply stood there, unflinching. Where they all mute? Nonetheless, Fjord decided to continue.

"You wished to bring devastation and ruin upon this world in worship to your foul gods. But now, with your squad dead, your helping hand slaughtered by the very sacrifices they were intended to present, and your compound lost, your days are numbered. The Sons of Russ will hunt you down and mount your head on our battleships as we make thunder toward the Imperial Palace, and toward the final sundering of your treacherous 'coup. Destiny wills it so!" the Marine remained unreadable. What was he doing, simply standing there as the base around them was consumed in explosions of hellfire?

That was when he holstered his Bolter. He turned around, moving away from him, into the inferno that would probably not cause him much harm at all. Was he simply leaving him there to burn to ashes? So be it, but he decided to have one last swipe of his proverbial claw at him.

"For those I protect, I meet my death in glory. How will you meet your death, traitor?"

The Marine stopped. It was a brief instant, as he turned his head ever so slightly, before resuming his walk towards the torrent of flames. But it had been there. And as he disappeared into the inferno, that was at last a short respite for Fjord Thorsson, as the last and biggest charge went off and the world disappeared into the white.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Oh my God was this chapter a nightmare to write. Sorry to y'all expecting a Timeless Guardian chapter this week. That probably isn't happening due to...this thing.

Still, it's out. It's done. And I am more than happy for that. I will say, as much as I like how this turned out, I am insanely glad it was finally finished. Yeah, that was the short, sad tale of one Space Furry. I originally couldn't decide on whether to make him a Dreadnought, but alas, that would've felt cheap at this point. 'Sides, the Space Wolves already have far too many Dreadnoughts.

As always, I hope you enjoyed what I had to write, and if you did, maybe possibly hit that Favorite and Follow button? This thing is definitely not going to be updated for a while, as I'll be focusing on my other fic from now on until...whenever I feel like it. Honestly, I should really stop setting myself any kind of schedule with these thing...

Otherwise, reviews are also always appreciated. So you know, go scream at me in them about how I am worthless piece of trash that needs to focus on things people actually care about. I sure do.

This is your resident loser signing off (yes, I know these are getting more and more predictable).


	3. Messenger

Check the bottom of the chapter for notes.

* * *

Among the hordes of pilgrims, the destitute wealthy and the countless petty workers of the Imperial bureaucratic machine, a lone figure stood.

In truth he was not alone, his voice constantly connected to that of hundreds of his gene-forged brothers at all times. But in comparison to the world around him, his uniqueness shone through, a teardrop of gold among a sea of dull greys. A statue standing rigid, cast in the same finery as the actual statues surrounding him, yet ready to strike at any time should the situation call.

Augustine Seb had been alive for over 400 years. In those centuries, empires had burned. Cities had been sacked, whole planets put to the torch. Sectors slaughtered, wars won and lost. Yet Holy Terra stood the same, a wretched hive of scum and villainy encased in the blessings of it's dead god.

And the Custodes were the unsung masters of this world. By their mere word, billions could be slaughtered. The greatest individuals in the Imperium of Man, made null and void by their merest wish, for they and they alone possessed the will of him on the Golden Throne to carry forth.

Yet they rarely cared for the political brawls that often befell humanity's cradle, for they were consumed wholesale by the protection of their sire and lord. They watched however.

Always watched, always heard. No rumor, problem or development caught them in the dark, not a single bit of information escaping their web of adamantium, gripped tightly around every corner of the hellish sphere that was Old Earth.

It was one thing to suffer the wrath of the Administatum, or the Ecclesiarchy, or the Inquisition, or even the mighty Space Marines. It was a whole other world of terror to face down the terrifyingly efficient and swift cold rage of the Adeptus Custodes.

Yet, for that very reason, the situation outside the bowels of the Imperial Palace, away from the most dangerous threats to humanity located beneath it's very birthplace, rarely escalated to a point where the Custodes needed to take action. None was stupid enough to invoke their righteous fury, whether physically or in the field of politics.

So Augustine too stood mostly in silent vigil, watching a million faces pass him by each hour. Faces he would never remember. Faces he knew would be gone like the ash in the winds of the acidic air.

Sometimes, a fresh crowd of pilgrims, newly arrived on the world would congregate around him, throwing presents at him, praying in the God-Emperor's name, basking in the glory of one of his sons and personal companions, for them mere living myths until that day.

He used to find such encounters awkward and downright unsettling, but that had been long ago. The only time he cared for such encounters anymore was when the pilgrims touched him. Of course, he understood why, but they too had to understand the boundaries they would obey when they stepped on the Emperor's very own home.

The highest authority guaranteeing the safety of the Master of Mankind were not to be bothered while doing their duty. So it was decreed, and Augustine was more merciful than most on those who overstepped their bounds. If a mortal were to bother him, their punishment was essentially akin to getting a light slap on the wrist.

Though being yelled at by the voice of a demigod magnified through vox-speakers and having a vicious weapon that could outright pulverize most beings in the galaxy pointed at you was usually more than enough. None would try it a second time.

* * *

Another day passed, another span of hours spent patrolling a roughly predetermined area.

The life of a Custodian Guardsman was hardly that of his equivalent in the Space Marines. While the Astartes were called liberally, over a million worlds requiring their protection and stretched so thin, they hardly found a dull moment.

Even in Terra's gruesomeness there was a certain monotony that developed after a while. Hundreds of crimes were committed right in front of him, to some points entirely without subtlety. But the crows did not care, and neither did he. Why would the folly of mortals be important to him, a post-mortal, if it did not involve his duty? As for the crowd, it marched ever onward, a sea of flesh and sweat and different fumes.

Sometimes he was glad his helmet was sealed.

Yet in this most usual and lenient of days, something would break the monotony. Something that he, admittedly, had never been trained to handle.

At first he did not even notice them, being merely two other blips in the crowd he would otherwise pay no heed to. They approached undetected by his conscious mind, for automatic processes alone were observing them as they did all humans within his field of vision.

Then, when they were within stepping distance of him and stopped, he finally noticed them. A couple, the woman carrying something in her hands. They could not be pilgrims, for they were not singing the Emperor's supposed word from the Lectitio Divinitatus, and their clothing was too impeccable, even stained by Terra's acid rain. Various fetishes and jewelry adorned their frame, marking them out as important by comparison to most other petty officers that passed through the gates of the Outer Palace.

Before the Custodian could think more of the development and decide on whether asking them to leave was a good idea or not, the woman spoke.

"Custodian Augustine Seb, born Sebastian Bleck?"

The warrior paused. Then he nodded.

_Sebastian Bleck. _It had been many lifetimes since he had last heard that name. Spoken only a few times in briefings after his emergence from the labs of rebirth that forged all Custodes out of ordinary babes, only remembered for the duration of his mortal parents' lives, which he very rarely saw and even more rarely interacted with.

A Custodian had little connection to their previous life, their being wholly devoted to the Emperor. But for any family, it was an honor beyond any to be selected to host the birthing of one of the Ten Thousand, among the countless billions across Terra.

The Bleck family, he was told, was one of the most prestigious in the Western Hemisphere, holding sway over the massive hive spire, Novus Roma. They had given a number of their newborns to the Adeptus Custodes, and had existed in some measure or another for over 700 years.

But yet, he did not keep info on them so much. It was simply not important to his job. Having his mortal name mentioned so casually was the closest he'd come to dumbstruck in a long time. It was only after digesting that, when he saw the woman, a beautiful redhead unsullied by the common filth around her, though with ashen skin like all the spawn of Terra who were not augmented, was crying.

"I am honored to meet you, ancestor."

So his suspicions had been proven correct.

The man wrapped his arm around her, attempting to diffuse her emotions with his warmth, though Augustine could clearly see that would not be achieved easily. However, the woman was smiling even through her tears. In a way, he could sympathize, even if he could never truly understand.

Having a blood of an immortal demigod, the spawn of the Emperor himself related to you, at least somewhat, was almost guaranteed to cause a massive reaction in any mortal. But simply because Augustine was sympathetic, did not mean he had any reason to indulge her beyond a basic request.

"Is there a reason for you being here, child? I have a job to do if not. The Emperor must protect."

Immediately, the voice of his vox seemed to snap her out of the trance her reveal had caused. She nodded, frantically and motioned to what she was carrying. A bundle of something wrapped in cloth.

It was a this point that the Custodian became aware of all who were stopped and staring. He banged the pole end of his spear to the ground, letting everyone know the attention was not appreciated, and the crowd quickly dispersed. None gathered back in it's place.

He motioned the couple closer as he kneeled to face them. The crimson red of his optics staring curiously at the cloth. The woman, once more, tearfully removed some of it, only to reveal a gentle sleeping face.

A babe was wrapped in the cloth, looking barely a year old. Augustine was a trained and born warrior, though he too could appreciate the innocence of such a defenseless and soft-looking lifeform. But only just.

He did not have to wait long for an explanation however. The man at this point took from the woman, who was clearly in no emotional state to speak much.

"Our family has been much blessed before by the hand of the Emperor, and you being one of said blessings, ancient Augustine, we saw it fit to inform you that my sister and heir to family, Samantia, has bore a son which the Custodes have accepted as tribute. We were hoping to receive your own personal words in regards to him, as we have...all the others this day."

Again, the day surprised him. Augustine looked once more into the babe's sleeping face, it's smooth features, undeveloped and looking so weak. To think that if he survived the procedures to come he would be among the deadliest things in the galaxy one day was a humbling thought. All life had to come from somewhere.

Even the Emperor himself had had a genesis not too dissimilar, though he had been born into greatness rather than picked for it.

In the face of this profound moment, even his cold demeanor warmed somewhat, and he removed his helm. Dull coals stared back at the tiny people in front of him, and their tinier still child. A patrician's face lined with age and ashen hair that fell just below his ears.

"I give you blessing, Samantia, to you and your child, if the Emperor judges him worthy of enduring the road ahead. Shall he succeed I will do my best to watch over him, and guide him to be a servant unmatched for the good of the Imperium."

His mighty, gauntleted fist for just a moment over the baby.

"Let him be know henceforth as Hermes, his first name beyond his name, given and answered by me, so he may swift of form, devious and cunning, and message death to the enemies of the Imperium."

He lightly patted the child on the head, making sure not to hurt him, before withdrawing his hand and rising to his feet. The couple had a look of reverence on their face, as he put his helm on.

"Now go. I must return to my duties."

The couple lingered for a few seconds more, but they soon nodded and were gone. As he saw them march away in the sea of bodies, the tiniest of smiles played at his lips.

* * *

**Author's notes: **And here is...this thing.

Fun fact, I've actually considered writing this since the very beginning of Timeless Guardian, just never got around to it. But not it's here, and it's...OOF, the first story in literally a year. GAWD I AM LAZY.

Well sorry to that one reviewer who said he was expecting more soon, I guess, but well better late than ever. I hope you all enjoy this, for I have no idea when I'll make another chapter for this thing, so don't hold out too much.

Otherwise, reviews and faves are always appreciated. This is Dome of Bones signing out, again.


End file.
